


Perfect

by TrashCat



Category: Pocket Monsters: X & Y | Pokemon X & Y Versions
Genre: Bondage, Dubious Consent, F/M, POV Second Person, Stockholm Syndrome, Vaginal Sex, agalmatophilia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-17
Updated: 2014-11-17
Packaged: 2018-02-25 18:08:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,432
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2631257
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TrashCat/pseuds/TrashCat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He says that you're the most beautiful girl he's ever seen, and he doesn't want anyone else to spoil you. The outside world is too greedy and stupid and he's not about to let it ruin what might be the only pure girl left in the world.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Perfect

**Author's Note:**

> I don't even remember writing this, but I guess it was over the summer when I was playing Pokemon Y...I figured I might as well share it with the world >.>
> 
> Who knew there was even a name for this sort of thing?

He says he dreams of a beautiful world.

Your room is beautiful, even if it's kind of small and bare. It's very clean. The bed is pink and white and has a lacy canopy cascading down on every side, and the closet is full of dresses and shoes. But those are the only things in the room. There aren't even windows.

In the morning and afternoon, you can walk around the room, though there isn't really anything to do besides try on all the dresses and shoes and eat meals when they're delivered to you by Pokemon. The only thing besides that is to wait for Lysandre to come visit.

Sometime in the evening, he always visits. His Mienfoo comes in first and ties you down to the bed with soft pink ribbons, and then Lysandre follows it and calls it back to its Pokeball.

Most of the time, he talks to you, pacing restlessly back and forth in the small room with his hands folded behind his back, talking about people and how stupid they are and how little they understand: how most people can't see the world beyond their own noses. His voice shakes with rage as he rants about waste, greed, unkindness. Disregard for beauty.

“I just don't understand how thick people can be,” he spits, about a patch of woodland being developed into apartments. “How little they care.” About the rich who hoard their wealth when their neighbors are poor. “All my life I've tried to understand, Serena. Why is it that no one can see what kind of world they're creating?”

Around then, he always tries to calm down, and sits on the edge of the bed.

When he had first taken you, after you'd lost that battle in his underground lab, he'd taken your Pokemon and had you blindfolded and tied up. He must have dusted you with Sleep Powder, because at some point you'd lost consciousness.

You'd woken up here, tied to the bed. After the first few days (you think—it's hard to tell time with no clock and no way to see outdoors), he'd untied you.

It's lonely here. You miss your Pokemon, and your friends, and being able to explore outdoors...that's why you put all your energy into pleasing Lysandre. And being pleased by him.

He says that you're the most beautiful girl he's ever seen, and he doesn't want anyone else to spoil you. The outside world is too greedy and stupid and he's not about to let it ruin what might be the only pure girl left in the world. He loves your kindness, caring, consideration for others, always without a care for yourself. “I didn't think there was anyone left like you,” he says. “And I wasn't about to lose you to anyone, not even Augustine. Even he's against me—he's too soft to realize that desperate times are already here.”

You'd never really thought about any of the things he says before. You don't think he's right, but he can't be all wrong, either...his heart's in the right place, isn't it? He just wants there to be enough of everything to go around.

Not like your opinion matters. He just wants you to look pretty and never change.

Maybe there's something in the food he gives you. Your mind is sluggish and often sleepy, lately.

 

 

He comes into the dim room as quietly as a stalking Pyroar, shutting the door softly behind him. “Good evening, Serena.” He calls his Mienfoo back. “Good job. Return.”

The ribbons bind your hands and feet to the bedposts, and crisscross over your eyes like a blindfold. You let out a shaky breath.

“I was on the phone with Augustine. That silly, wonderful man.” You hear him pacing like he always does. “He's a dear friend, but...so frustrating. My blood boils when I try to get him to understand—“

You feel his hands land heavily on either side of you. When he speaks next his voice is much closer.

“I don't have much patience today. I apologize.”

His breath is hot on your face for an instant and then he's kissing you, a sloppy open-mouthed kiss as he strokes your hair with both of his hands. You try to get your bearings and kiss back, but as soon as you get into it he's abandoned your mouth and started licking a trail down to your breasts. He tugs on the bodice hard and pulls the neckline down and your breasts pop out. He sucks on each of your breasts for a long time, monotonously. You wish you could tell him to use his tongue a little more, but he doesn't like you talking during sex. Once, it made him lose his erection completely and he couldn't get it back up again.

“Your skin is perfect,” he rasps, as he starts rutting against your leg and kissing your breasts again and again. “Has it ever been scraped or bruised when you were out exploring?” You don't say anything. “Now nothing like that can happen to you again. I'll be sure of that.” He places a tender kiss on your forehead, then you hear the sound of his fly unzipping.

He pulls your skirts up and puts his fingers down between your legs, checking the wetness, not wanting to hurt you. You haven't quite been aroused enough yet, though your body has come to respond to the sound of his voice close to your ear and his loving touch on your skin.

When he starts rubbing your clit, for the first time you have to try not to make a noise. Even just a little squeak could snap him out of it. His fingers are rough, and careful but sure. You lay still, concentrating on the heat building there. Your legs shake.

Lysandre removes his hands and starts rubbing his hot cock against your clit, and you're so wet now, you wish you could tell him to put it in. If you weren't tied down, you'd want to grab it and guide it inside.

You've never touched it with your hands or mouth or even feet: he doesn't seem to want to put it in your ass, either. Other than the tying to the bed, the silence, and now the blindfolding, he's just really vanilla, you guess.

Finally he puts the tip against your entrance, and, with a low sigh of pleasure, slides it in. He fucks you slowly, almost too slowly. You're glad the ribbons over your eyes hide your tears of frustration. You bite your lip and try to breathe evenly, though your body is shaking with barely contained stimulation.

“You look lovely again today,” he mutters, in between slow thrusts. “Tomorrow, I think I'll have some new furniture brought down. A vanity. Or a dresser...” He squeezes your breasts and rubs your erect nipples. “Your hair will also be cut. It's longer than it was when I first met you.” His pace picks up, bit by bit. You shift your hips, hoping he won't notice. He doesn't. “I will preserve you in here.” He shoves in harder, and his breathing comes more heavily, close in your ear. Now and then a sound escapes him, like a deep wild purr of satisfaction. He kisses your neck again and again, and puts his hands on your thighs.

Lysandre rams deep into you a few times, and on the last, most deliberate thrust, he comes. He pulls out as he does and cum leaks wet and hot against your inner thighs. Lysandre wipes it off your skin with the handkerchief you know he keeps in his pocket, carefully cleaning your labia.

“I've never seen a more charming shade of pink,” he says in your ear. And he kisses you, deeply, and you lay as still and lifeless as the dead.

Before he leaves, he unties you, undresses you completely, and picks out a new dress for you to wear. If you lift a hand to dress yourself, he firmly pushes it away. He dresses you all by himself, and you sit in his lap like a tiny child who can't put a dress on the right way.

Or like a doll.

He lays you in bed then, and pulls the covers up to your chest. His sharp blue eyes look you up and down in the dim light, and you stare up at the canopy, waiting for him to leave. As he turns off the lights, and leaves with a turn of his heel, you wish you were allowed to say goodbye.

 


End file.
